


Only Ash

by AngelusErrare



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 04:18:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15064991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelusErrare/pseuds/AngelusErrare
Summary: The final battle is exactly the opposite of how you imagined it.





	Only Ash

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [only cinder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11822112) by [bombcollar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombcollar/pseuds/bombcollar). 



> I strongly recommend reading Only Cinder first.

There is a knot in your stomach as the Firekeeper proclaims you the Heir, sprinkles your body with the cinders of those who came before you, and tells you it is time. It's a stubborn knot, refusing to go away or even lessen and in fact you believe it is _tightening_ as you place your frozen hand on the bonfire's sword and allow it to whisk you away to the Kiln.

This is where it all began. This could be where it will all end. You are still undecided, confused, not knowing whose beliefs to trust when it comes to the nature of Men, Gods, and ravenous Flame. 

You upset Yuria by refusing the ceremony with Anri, and she no longer offers advice or subservience, regarding you with cold eyes and stiff silence whenever you go near her.

The Firekeeper is encouraging as always; you think perhaps it is the sworn duty of all Firekeepers to nurture the flames and the ones destined (do you believe in destiny? Has any of what has happened felt like a choice, or simply an obligation?) to fuel it. Her voice has soothed you before, but now the anxiety is a force of its own, and it will not be silenced.

Others whisper in the back of your mind that the Flame _needs_ to fade, to die, that the gods' glorious Age of Fire has extended well past its natural lifespan. The dragons' Age faded with the coming of the Fire; let the next Age be born from its ashes, a dark phoenix to usher in the coming night.

The Prince comes to mind, a heavy guilt that has weighed upon your shoulders for several days now. The boy raised to be sacrificed, a descendant of the gods sent to rekindle their power. The boy who, having looked into the fire, refused it nourishment, refused it life, turning away from the duty he had been born for and choosing to let the Flame die out for good. You hadn't wanted to fight him or his brother, had hoped there was an alternative, but...

But what? You could have walked away. You still don't even know if you want to be here. You know not whose path is best. You have no plan for what to do after you defeat the Flame's guardian-- if you defeat it at all.

The Firekeeper is solemn as she describes it to you; a great warrior formed of the souls of all who came before you, of every Lord of Cinder and fallen champion since Gwyn himself linked the Fire. From what she says, it will be a much more difficult foe than any you have encountered so far. You resign yourself to the upcoming death, for the brief warmth of a flame's touch before your ashen body is relinquished to the cold again. Is that not how it has been with every death so far? The Lords were no easy foes to conquer. The taste of death at the back of your throat is now familiar, though never comforting.

She backs away as you approach the top of the rise. This is it. Your final battle, one way or another. Either the guardian will extinguish your own feeble flame for good, snuffing it out without so much as a thought, or you will destroy it, your will to live eclipsing the strength of its duty to defend the Flame.

You breathe slowly, deeply, savoring this last moment of peace. 

Then, almost of their own volition, your feet carry you forward, approaching the embered figure in the center of the Kiln. Your hands raise to find the handles of sword and shield, and though you feel them tremble your gauntleted fingers are silent against the steel. The knot at the center of your stomach has turned into a hollowness, a sinking sensation that tells you to turn around, to run away and never, _never_ look back.

As if sensing your approach the Soul of Cinder rises. 

Your father once said there was a war in your smile, that you would have made a better knight than a scoundrel (he always called you that word, forever unwilling to admit his child had become an _assassin_ rather than following some nobler path, but you never let it get to you), but you weren't born for the battlefield, nor were you ever particularly taken with the idea of mooning about drafty old castles guarding stuck-up Lords and Ladies who honestly _needed_ a good assassinating, if only to spare their subjects from their unending prattle.

Personally, you've always thought your smile was more suited to the gallows than the thick of battle; a cruel, self-deprecating, bitter thing is the grin that graces your lips as you step forth into ankle-high ash. There is no enjoyment to be had in this tension, no gentleness in the way both of your grips tighten on your weapons.

But then it does a strange thing, this guardian, something the Firekeeper did not prepare you for.

Its hands rise to the edge of its helmet, embers flaking from creaking joints as it lifts the crown-like adornment and lets it fall into the ash. There is a familiarity to its features that eludes you, as if a memory has gained flesh before you. The platinum hair and the profile of the jaw especially catch your attention, though the piercing eyes do not.

The Soul begins to walk toward you, raising the flaming greatsword and gaining speed with every step. 

Instinct rather than conscious thought propels you into a sideways roll as it-- he-- nears, trying to get behind him. Maybe you can stab him in the back, weaken his legs, anything to get some sort of small advantage. Every dirty trick and honest mistake you have ever used comes to the forefront of your mind, muscles tense and poised for this, your final battle, your last stand...

And then he shoves you.

You land unharmed in the soft, thick ash, coughing as the cloud rising around you enters your lungs. As the gray dust clears, you stare in shock after the Soul, at the voice ringing out over the Kiln.

"Catch me if you can, asshole!" he cries, and you begin to wonder if there is such a thing as emotional whiplash because if there is, you're most certainly experiencing it now. You know that voice; in fact you know it _very_ well, because that little shit kept taunting you with every death of yours, every time his brother cut you down. Every time it took you longer to return to them, as if you were losing your resolve to fight them.

Lothric's laughter sounds of bells and victory as he whirls through the dust he kicks up, strong and healthy now, a stark contrast to the frail and malformed boy he was. You wonder if Lorian is in there as well, reveling in this shared body, in the renewed strength of his legs. 

You're fairly certain his next comment is more directed at himself (and his brother?) than at you, but it still makes you smile. Not the gallows smile this time; a wide, childish grin splits across your features, a giggle breaking what little composure you might have had left.

"I am going to take these new legs and have adventures until this world finally ends!"

You glance at the Flame, a pitiful thing slowly guttering out as it has been for who knows how many centuries. You look after the prince, racing in circles through the Kiln, leaping and twisting and... really not looking like he has any intention of fighting you. If anything, he really does seem to be teasing you, inviting you to just _try_ catching up to him (as if you could; his legs are each as tall as your body itself, and for all your stamina you know you would have no chance of keeping up).

And then you do something that Yuria and the Firekeeper both would most definitely disapprove of. After all, they've given you as little choice as the Prince had. No matter which of the two you had followed, you were still being shepherded towards the Flame, toward a future you weren't sure you even wanted. Becoming a Lord interested you none, nor were you all that eager to sacrifice yourself in the name of continuing the Gods' dwindling age.

So yes, both women would greatly disapprove of what you choose.

You run after the errant Prince, accepting the joking offer to chase him.

You will both be glad to see the Fire die.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this isn't my first time writing in the Dark Souls universe, but it _is_ my first time posting what I've written. This also isn't my usual Unkindled OC, but I have a strong headcanon that some Unkindled remember who they used to be before waking up in the ash.
> 
> Many thanks to bombcaller for granting me permission to write this!


End file.
